In the field we stunk. I had only one chance in right—a foul fly I couldn’t reach to take on the bounce—but the others had plenty, and they botched far too many. Several of George’s throws sailed ten feet over Gould’s head. The usually sure-handed first sacker dropped others. Allison and Sweasy looked like they were asleep. The Central Citys, hardly defensive whizzes themselves, played with growing confidence. We were making them look good.
We didn’t get to the Syracuse hurler until the top of the eighth. By then it was nearly eight o’clock, and the game had run well over three hours. The sun was settling behind the Mill Creek hills, darkening the smoke-laden sky. Venting our frustrations with hit after hit, we tallied thirteen runs before making a single out.
The Central Citys began to stall. If darkness ended play, the score would revert to the end of the previous inning—giving them a tie and spoiling our record. Their pitcher went through increasingly complicated windups, threw wildly, took his warnings, and issued walks. The catcher retrieved balls leisurely after letting them bounce past him. Knowledgeable spectators began to protest. On the bench we muttered curses as we watched the hurler study the ball, the batter, the defensive alignment, adjust his uniform, wind up, throw. Another wide called. The catcher jogged for the ball. Only when the ump threatened to call a forfeit did they clean up their act a bit.
Harry went down swinging on three pitches for our first out. Andy legged a shallow shot to left into a double. I slammed my first pitch over second for a single, scoring him. Sweasy rapped a ball to shortstop, who threw it suspiciously wide of first. Sweasy tripped and fell—deliberately, I was sure—on the baseline. The first baseman retrieved the ball and had no choice but to tag him. Two out.
And at that point it ended.
The Central Citys’ president, having risen from the scorers’ table to talk to the ump after Harry’s strikeout, now rose again. In a voice that carried over the diamond, he announced that Harry and Sweasy had deliberately made outs, and that darkness made further play too dangerous. At his command the Syracuse players trooped off the field.
We were aghast at the flagrancy of it. There was plenty of light—we’d all played when it was far darker. Harry instructed Mac, due up next, to stay at the plate. He remained there a good five minutes while Harry argued our case. I found myself wondering about Harry’s strikeout. I didn’t think he’d deliberately lie or deceive. But he wanted fiercely to win. Had he subconsciously pulled a fast one?
The ump awarded us the game by the existing score of 36—22. Since Syracuse refused to continue, it seemed the only choice. I’d heard of clubs quitting the field after disputes, and I remembered Champion wanting to pull us out in Troy—where we most certainly would have taken a forfeit loss. The problem was that no standing body existed to settle disputes. The association met only in winter. We had our victory, but it left a bad taste.
We went to Andy’s favorite eatery, the Main Street Dining Saloon, a noisy, crowded restaurant near the Gibson that offered tasty food at moderate prices. We apologized for the sloppy game, but Cait said that she had enjoyed Carrie Wright’s company and found the game’s disputes interesting. Later at the boardinghouse she fixed tea for me again. This time we talked of nothing very serious. I felt comfortable with her. When I asked about Timmy’s return, she said sometime that night, she expected. I kept from asking any of the questions that occurred to me.
It was as though mentioning Brainard would jinx us—or maybe him. In the clubhouse we’d made no reference to his absence. But the next morning he got plenty of mention in the press.
I read Millar’s Commercial piece with growing surprise. After recounting the Syracuse walkout, he mentioned that a “very self-important member” of the Stockings had been missing. Not content with that, he wrote, “Mr. Brainard, a very clever gentleman, whose opinion of himself has been considerably elevated by the praise of flatterers, was absent, and, as a consequence, his club found it pretty hard to pull through. . . .”
Whew, I thought, what’s he doing?
Farther on, Millar wrote, “Allison, who has not yet revived from the large share of flattery lately bestowed upon him, refused to occupy his accustomed place. . . .
I had an uneasy feeling there was more to this than sportswriter carping. Millar usually mirrored Champion’s views.
I heard my name and looked up. Waterman was striding toward my table in the Gibson dining room.
“Gotta talk,” he said. “Private.” His tone was forceful, his expression a degree less bland. For Waterman this was a highly emotional state.
“Sure.” I finished my coffee.
Up in my room he said, “It’s about Acey.”
“I figured. Where’s he been?”
“That’s only part of it. Also who he’s been there with.”
“Okay, who?”
“First, you got to know Acey’s hit the spirits hard lately. It’s always a sign he’s feeling sorry for himself. And booze ain’t all. He likes to have people around who’ll play up to him, make him feel important—and he’s always been one to run with the champagne set.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “He’s in over his head with gamblers.”
“Partly that.”
“Partly?”
“There’s this woman named Maud,” he said. “Acey’s pet blonde, a fast one. He’s been piling fancy clothes and jewelry on her. Got accounts at the big downtown stores. More than he can cover. Then he lost playing the trotters over at Buckeye track a couple days ago. He borrowed to cover that, and now they’re squeezing him.”
“Who is?”
“Don’t know exactly, but I can tell Acey’s scared of ’em.”
I had a sudden suspicion. “Did he skip out on us so somebody could clean up betting long odds?”
He looked at me shrewdly. “You got a quick mind
